David Bowie’s final studio album is a breathtaking glimpse of death
David Bowie’s Blackstar was released on Jan. 8, 2016, two days before he passed away. It was Bowie’s most ambitious stray from mainstream appeal in decades, far more obtuse than the jazz-infused pop-rock on his most commercially successful record, 1983’s Let’s Dance. Blackstar received universal critical acclaim upon its release; its 41-minute runtime contains an ominous, and unsettling record, with dense jazz exploration, and cryptic lyrics, amalgamating in a thrillingly strange album.
When news broke of Bowie’s passing in the early morning hours of January 10th, the world was stunned. The death of the icon seemed an unfathomable tragedy, and naturally, the world began to look back into the life and discography of David Bowie. Our society is achingly nostalgic at times, but when a creative fire that has burned for 40 years is suddenly extinguished, it’s difficult to resist basking in the nostalgic warmth it provided for so long.
Bowie’s illustrious career can only be described as magical; an inspiring journey of a cultural apostle who transcends decades, genres, and genders. He’s a figure who is perhaps best described as the physical embodiment of genuine artistic expression of the 20th century and beyond. David Bowie remained an inspiring figure to the day he died. His defiant androgyny and no-f*cks attitude were unwavering. He was inspired, but never mimicked, and he was popular, but never pandered. He was a fervent creator, and his most arduous creation comes in the form of his swan song, Blackstar, a record that many simply overlooked in their rush to Bowie’s back catalogue following his death.
Blackstar is a difficult record to unpack, its innumerable subtleties and enigmatic lyrics make it one of the least accessible albums in Bowie’s collection. Yet, these same attributes make it one of his most impressive and deeply personal projects.
[pullquote align=”left” cite=”” link=”” color=”” class=”” size=””]…handled eloquently by a man in the twilight of his life.[/pullquote]
Upon Bowie’s passing, it was revealed that he had succumbed to an undisclosed cancer that he fought for 18 months. This struggle is vital to the narrative of the album, which reveals itself as a beautiful attempt to make sense of one’s life, legacy, and ultimately, death. Bowie stares down the unknown on this record, at times defiantly, and at others, acceptingly.
This album challenges listeners, and presents them with the foreboding task of engaging with death, a theme that has been universally explored, but perhaps never in this way. Across Blackstar’s seven tracks, Bowie seems to attempt to come to terms with his own mortality, and marks his exploration of the unknown with this album.
Sonically, the album is textured and diverse, with rich and dynamic instruments enveloped by digital production. Bowie cited Kendrick Lamar and Death Grips as influences on this album, and although subtle, the production seems to inspire the same organic and lively sound that they typically conjure, with a subdued but inexplicable intensity to the lyrics.
In typical Bowie fashion, the record features vast instrumentation, with simple basslines propelling the tracks forward, coupled with loose drumming and multi-tracked guitars. Saxophone and flute lines dance hypnotically across the stereo-field over a wall of synthesizers, and Bowie’s vocals are modulated and doubled throughout the record, forming captivating soundscapes. At times, the myriad of sounds combines in gorgeous melody, but in others they create intense cacophony, adding to the ominous theme of the album.
The opening, eponymous track of the album is accompanied by a particularly haunting and strange music video, clocking in at a staggering 10 minutes. Bowie seems to embrace his waning vocals on this record, and he croons over swelling horns and synth stabs that bellow eerily in the first half of the song. There’s a distinct tonal change at the midpoint of the song, as Bowie sings “Something happened on the day he died, Spirit rose a meter and stepped aside, Somebody else took his place and bravely cried (I’m a blackstar, I’m a star star, I’m a blackstar).” The repeated refrain from Bowie that he’s a “blackstar” implies a loss of light; a star that’s shine is flickering, soon to be erased completely.
The music video shows a broken astronaut’s suit, revealing a skeleton inside, and if Bowie is self-referencing here, the skeleton clearly represents Major Tom from Bowie’s “Space Oddity.” The image seems to signify that much like Major Tom, Bowie is embarking on a journey into the great unknown, on a mission he knowingly cannot survive.
The second track of the record, “Tis A Pity She Was A Whore,” is opened with two breaths drawn by Bowie. Upon first listen, they seem out of place, perhaps lazily left in, but following his death they become poignant, and appear heavier with each spin of the album. The song’s intensity grows with layered instrumentation, as manic screams and frenzied saxophones howl, but remain tempered in the mix.
The track “Lazarus” shares its name with the Biblical character who is resurrected from death, which seems fitting for this album. The track is spacious, with moody horns driving the melody as Bowie sings “Look up here, I’m in heaven, I’ve got scars that can’t be seen, I’ve got drama, can’t be stolen, Everybody knows me now,” not only seeming to predict his own death, but the resurgence in popularity that his discography saw too.
The instrumentation on the album switches from dense orchestration to more of a standard ballad on tracks like “Dollar Days.” This track brings a more straightforward arrangement, coupled with another set of morose lyrics, with Bowie repeating “I’m trying to, I’m dying to” through to the end of the track.
Although the instrumentation is grandiose and lush throughout Blackstar, the lyrics are what makes this album so powerful, with the backing music effectively carrying Bowie’s narration throughout the record. They’re particularly cutting on tracks like “Girl Loves Me,” where Bowie repeatedly asks “Where the fuck did Monday go?” a sobering chant from a man who passed away on a Sunday.
There’s certainly a melancholy vibe to Blackstar, but Bowie seems to find peace in the threshold of death. The finality of the ending track “I Can’t Give Everything Away” almost seems celebratory, with a chorus of vocals acting as a fond farewell from each of Bowie’s alter-egos.
Blackstar invites listeners to vicariously experience death through the eyes of David Bowie. A seemingly insurmountable task, that is somehow handled eloquently by a man in the twilight of his life. It’s a challenging, but ultimately liberating experience, and a journey that could be painfully tedious with a lesser artist as our guide. Blackstar’s final track features a harmonica melody from a song off of Bowie’s 1977 album Low. It’s called “A New Career in a New Town,” and perhaps that’s exactly what Bowie is off to find.